Working Stiff
by Daniel Lakeside
Summary: Original story with character's from the WWE. Color it AU, 'cause so many changes have taken place since I started this story... Main character is my own creation, as are some others. Apologies to anyone who knows the real people. R&R please & thx!
1. Champ

Chapter 1: CHAMP

I'm gonna kill this punk, and he's not gonna know what hit him.

The lights, the screaming of the fans, it's just him and me and the ref makes three in the ring.

He thinks he's got the upper hand, the advantage. Pretty boy, selling it good too. So am I. That's why the crowd is nuts right now. They think I'm down. They think I'm hurt bad. But I'm just selling it. This particular little episode ends with punk boy there doing the job.

He puts me in a sleeper hold. Not a real one, thank God, I'd be passed out faster than you can say boo. This is more like a modified chin lock that looks worse than it is. The crowd is on its feet, screaming bloody murder, waiting for the comeback. Nobody jobs to a sleeper hold any more. So at the count of 2 and 29/30ths my arm shoots straight up, I'm not dead, oh no no no.

Elbow to the ribs, one two kaboom. I'm free and punk boy is doubled over. My left arm around his head, his left over mine, lift up and he's vertical. Hold it for the flash photography and BAM, one perfectly executed, perfectly sold vertical suplex. The crowd is screaming my name and the noise is beyond deafening. I signal for the finisher, my thumb under my throat, left right, like that French dude at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Snick, snick. I pick up punk boy by the hair, move to the center of the ring, and tuck his head between my knees, grab him around the waist and hoist. He's now sitting on my shoulders facing behind me, his crotch in my face - nasty. That's all about to change. I hoist him higher, actually throw him up, grab his knees, and drop to my back, slamming him face first into canvas from 6 feet up. Dirt Nap, I call it. My finisher. Nobody gets up from it.

Punk boy sells it like the former champ he now is, his body as stiff as petrified board. One-two-three. Straps mine.

Explosions and noise and mayhem and carnage. God, do I love this job.

The announcer gets on the mic. He's a short, chunky guy with hair down to his ass, with a voice like god in the Ten Commandments. He hollers out, "Ladies and Gentlemen - Your NEW Undisputed World Champion! Max Carnage!"

Yep, Max Carnage, professional wrestler. That's me... whoops, 'scuse me - UNDISPUTED WORLD CHAMP Max Carnage, that's me.

The ref hands me the fifteen pounds of gold which I take with both hands and fly it over my head, showing the crowd, loving that pop. I do the four sider and head back toward the curtain, making sure to slap as many high fives as I can with the ringside crowd. Keeps me in face country, doing stuff like that.

I head up the ramp, turn back to face the crowd one more time, fly that belt high and proud for all to see. One more huge pop, and I milk it for all that it - and I - am worth. Then I duck behind the curtain to meet the boys.

The gang's all here, yelling and laughing and slapping me fives and buddy punches, giving me the congrats. I see punk boy over by the ref. I walk over to him, shake his hand, give him a big hug. "Thanks, Kurt, I say. That was quite a match."

"Max, its a pleasure getting in the ring with you," Kurt says. "You're the best. You earned that belt, my friend. Wear it proud. You know Ill be gunning for it, not to mention everybody here will be as well. But you enjoy the laurels, Max. You've earned 'em. And nobody can take that away from you. Remember that."

I tell Kurt I will remember it, and head off for the dressing room.

More of the boys are there, drinking beer, laughing, yelling, throwing suds my way. I soak it up, love it. Not as good as a crowd pop, but still good.

The boss man comes in and shakes my hand. "Hows it feel?" he asks, his teeth whiter than naturally possible, he's a trained monkey in a good suit.

"Feels great. Damn great. Any ideas on how long I get to keep it?"

"Whoa! Slow down there, big fella!" The boss calls everybody big fella. The boss is a shrimp weasel in Armani, a garden slug in Italian shoes. "You just got the brass ring! You're THE man! Enjoy it while you've got it. If you keep getting pops like what you had tonight, I'm pretty sure you'll have that belt for several months." The monkey grin never goes away and I smell fertilizer and rotten eggs, chorizo farts with a crock of crap.

"Ok," I say. "Couple months. Cool." I stare at the belt like its my baby, give it a little kiss. Boss weasel likes that, the Armani wearing monkey slug. Yeah, you just try and pry this belt outta my hands, old man. Give it your best shot, slug monkey.

Boss weasel leaves, and I have a beer. I shower and have a beer. I get dressed and have a beer. I pack my gear and have a beer. I look at the belt some more and have a beer. I brush my teeth and chew some mint-flavored gum. I walk out of the dressing room with my gym bag over one arm and the belt over the other. I step out of the arena. The crowd. The crowd is everywhere and they're still yelling and screaming and going nuts and throwing pens and paper at me and I start signing autographs and I get whapped upside the head with a pair of black thong panties. I look at em, grin, and put them in my pocket. I finish signing autographs around 12:30. Now I feel beat up.

I climb in my rent-a-heap and drive the six miles to the Ramada that I'm staying at. Sharing a room with three other guys. Just hope they didn't do something weird to the bed.


	2. Celebration

Chapter 2: CELEBRATION

I go to the room and get ready to climb into bed. I pull up short 'cause I notice Mikey's asleep. Mikey doesn't sleep. Mikey stays awake until his roommates roll in. Mikey being asleep is a sign. A sign that Mikey has done a bad thing. A sign that Mikey is going to get an ass whipping in the immediate future. I pull back the covers on my bed. Written in dirt clods on my bed is CONGRATS CHAMP! I don't say a word. I climb on top of the dirt clod laden bed, jump up and out and land a perfect diving elbow on the mostly unsuspecting Mikey.

"You bitch boy chud muncher," I say. Mikey's laughing too hard to respond with anything witty. I leave.

I walk up the street to a 24-hour stop-and-rob, buy a six-pack. Guy behind the counter is in utter awe of me. "You're Max Carnage!" he says. Boy genius. "You're, like, the most awesome!"

I say thanks, slap down my cash for the buzz, and walk out, the door bells tinkling my departure. If the kid noticed the little height chart that they have at the doorjamb, he'd notice I'm not as tall as the announcers claim I am.

I pop a top and swig my brew, sitting on the curb in front of the store. Undisputed World champ. I oughtta be in a nice hotel somewhere, swilling champagne or something. Instead, here I sit, brew in hand, ass to the curb, watching traffic.

I never thought my life would take this little turn. I'd wanted to be a pro wrestler from the first time I saw Hulk Hogan go berserk in the ring, from the first time I saw Jimmy Superfly Snuka go flying from the top rope headfirst into some poor schmoe, from the first time I saw Sid Vicious powerbomb an opponent. I wanted that power, I wanted that prestige, I wanted that exhilaration and excitement running through me. I wanted people to see me and know I was a bad mofo with a nasty attitude. I wanted people to know I was not to be screwed with. I wanted the limelight, the spotlight, the SOLD OUT banner scrolling on my shows.

I sit and drink my beer. I reminisce. I drink my beer and remember watching Dusty Rhodes and Tony Atlas and Baron Von Raschke and Bobo Brazil and Hillbilly Jim. So many names. Some remembered. Rick Flair. Harley Race. Nick Bockwinkle. Gorilla Monsoon. Classy Freddie Blassie.

Some not remembered that should. Flyin' Brian Pillman. Brett Hart. Rick Rude. Owen Hart. "Quick Draw" Rick McGraw. Hey, those guys are dead. Except for Brett of course. He's as good as dead in this part of the industry. More's the pity 'cause he had the work ethic of the Amish.

Some remembered that probably shouldn't. Doink. Kurgan. Brooklyn Brawler. The Grand Wizard of Wrestling. God save us from gimmick wrestlers.

I remember seeing Rowdy Roddy Piper beat Rick McGraw one-handed - literally - on national TV back when squash matches were the standard for televised broadcasting. Back before Attitude. Before Get the F Out. Most goshdarned thing I'd ever seen on TV because Rick McGraw wasn't a standard jobber. He actually won matches once in awhile, which, again, was unheard of in that day and age. A jobber was a jobber and that was that. You wanted TV time and weren't a star, you jobbed in a squash, 'nuff said. Hulkamania changed some of that, but Attitude changed it the most. Now the matches are more evenly matched, haha I make joke. The marks really have no chance of truly guessing who will win a match because everything is so topsy-turvy anymore. I mean I could lose this thing to Brian Kendrick, the Boy Wonder, for cryin' out loud! And the violence level has gone up because of it. Now, we're lucky if we don't have total bloodshed in every match. God only knows how many noses I've busted with the Dirt Nap, from guys landing wrong. God only knows how many times I've gone to the medic desk after some punk pops me in the melon with a folding chair.

I sit and drink my beer. I sit and drink my beer and remember my first match. Max Carnage versus Jimmy "Haymaker" Hayman. No relation to Paul HEYMAN, founder and cult leader of the ECW freaks, heel manager extraordinaire. Two years ago, my goodness. Jimmy made sure I looked good. I tried to make him look good, but hadn't got the full hang of selling yet. I jobbed, and Jimmy tells me after the match to quit working so stiff, his jaw's killing him. For awhile there, that's what the boys called me. Working stiff. It was not a good nickname to have in this business.

I sit and drink my beer. I sit and remember the last seventy-two hours or so. Boss weasel coming up to me. Says "Max, Sunday you get the strap." I tell him he's joking. He says he's dead serious. I ask why. He says "'Cause you're like TNN, big fella. You got POP." Now this slug monkey's comparing me to cowboy TV. I'm so friggin' honored. I keep my mouth shut on the matter and now I have the belt.

I sit and drink my beer. I sit and drink my beer. I sit and reach for another beer and realize I've drunk my way through the sixer already. I stand up to head back into the stop-and-rob for another one when I hear noises off on my left. There's an alley over there. I see shadows moving. I start over to investigate. Probably shouldn't. I've had too much to drink and I'm dog-tired from signing autographs. I go over anyway. I've never been one for taking advise from anyone, even myself.

I get to the alley. There's a guy on his hands and knees. There's another guy standing over him. The standing guy is holding a pipe. The standing guy brings the pipe down on the kneeling guys head and neck. I hear the sound of breaking bone echo off the brick walls.

Hey!

The guy with the pipe looks up, drops the pipe and runs away from me. He doesn't care what direction, just so long as its away. Sumbitch be climbing the wall if it could get him away faster. The sound of his shoes hitting pavement is accompanied by the sound of the pipe rolling around in the alley, echoing off the brick walls and trash cans and dumpsters and garbage and...

Hey!

I'm running. I'm not going to catch the sumbitch and I know it. I stop at the body. I kneel down. Feel for a pulse in the neck. Zero. Damn. I stand back up and jog a little toward where killer took off to, hoping he might have left a clue or a sign or some such shit. No luck. I walk back. The stop-and-rob guy is standing there, eyes bugged out like some bushbaby in a National Geographic. Call 911 you jackass. Bushbaby turns tail and runs back to the store. I stay with the dead guy, half hoping the killer will come back like in some cheap dime store pulp, survey his handiwork as it were. No luck.

So much for celebrations and remembrances.


	3. Confrontation

Chapter 3: CONFRONTATION

Ok, so now it's two in the morning, my head is killing me and I'm standing around with cops and EMTs and a crowd of gawkers and lights are flashing and spinning and everybody's chitter chatter chitter chatter like a bunch of beavers high on coke.

Head cop walks up to me. He's an older guy with gray hair and a big ole black handlebar mustache with about six pounds of wax on the thing. He reminds me a little of Black Jack Mulligan, but not nearly as big. Gotta be the mustache. "So what happened fella?"

How surprisingly fresh to hear that word without its typical accompanying adjective.

"I was sitting over there." I point to the curb. "I was drinking beer."

"You do know public intoxication is against the law, don't you?"

Look me in the face, slug monkey.

"I was drinking beer and I'd finished up the six pack when -"

"Six-pack? Hm..."

"You want my statement or not?" Butt munch. Any and all resemblance to Black Jack is gone. He now reminds me of Snidely Whiplash, only with less brains.

"Please. Continue."

"I stood up and heard a noise in this alley. Against my better judgment, I went to investigate. When I got to this point," I go stand where I stood. "I see two people. One is this poor guy, on his hands and knees. Another guy was standing over him with a pipe. He swung the pipe in a downward arc, cracking this poor guy in the back of the head and neck. I heard bones break. I yelled out HEY. The guy with the pipe drops it and runs off down the alley."

"Did you attempt to follow this individual?"

"Yeah, but after I checked to see if this guy was ok. He wasn't, he was already dead. I jogged a little up to this point," I go stand where I stood. "I knew I had no chance in hell of catching the sumbitch. So I went back to the body. The guy from the convenience store was standing there looking at us like a deer in headlights. I tell him to call 911. Here you are."

Another cop walks up to us. He's younger than head cop, by about a millennium or so. Kid doesn't look old enough to be out of diapers. He sees me and his eyes get huge. Leans over to head cop and whispers in his ear. Head cop eyes me like I'm some sort of new insect, a piece of dog turd on his shoe, an elegant expensive car covered in poisonous reptiles.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Name's Max Carnalli. People know me better as Max Carnage."

"Max Carnage? Nickname?"

"Stage name."

"Actor?"

"Sort of. Pro wrestler."

"Um-hm. Isn't that stuff fake?"

You wanna find out how fake it is? I'm not as tall as the announcers claim I am, but I'm taller than you want to think. And I'm a hell of a lot bigger than this gray haired piggy.

"Are you threatening me, fella?" Piggy unstraps his sidearm, letting me know he's not scared of me so long as he has his weapon.

"Are you threatening ME? I'm unarmed here. You're the one with the gun. Do I scare you?"

"Let me remind you," says head cop trying to keep his voice from shaking, "you are the only witness to a murder. Circumstances could place you as the killer here."

I laugh. I have to laugh. If I don't laugh, I'm likely to powerbomb this blue suited asshole into next Tuesday.

"Did I say something funny?"

"If I killed this guy, do you honestly think I'd be standing here talking to you?"

"Doesn't matter what I think. You are the only one who claims to have seen the murder. We do have a witness who saw you standing over the body of the victim. This does not look good for you, fella. So I suggest you shut up before you say something that will get you arrested."

Why you punk ass cheap fuck whoremonger slit drip shit eating chud muncher

"Tim, would you please take Mr. Carnalli here down to the station for questioning?"

"Oh you have GOT to be joking! I've gotta be on a plane at 6 in the morning! I've gotta get to Frisco!"

"You are not going anywhere, fella. You are a key witness, and possible suspect, in a murder case here. I suggest you call your lawyer."

Cop Jr. puts his hand on the back of my elbow. It takes a lot of will power, but I keep from crushing his skull.

"This is BULLSHIT! Its BULLSHIT and you FUCKING KNOW IT!"

"Tim, get this clown outta my crime scene."

Cop Jr. leads me to a squad car. The crowd is three quarters drunk. Just like me. I see one of the kids who got an autograph from me a couple hours ago. He spits at me.

"I thought you were a face, Carnage. You ain't nothin'! You a punk!"

That hurt.

I climb into the patrol car without a word. People are starting to yell things. Bad things. I wanna sleep. I wanna sleep on a plane bound for San Francisco. I wanna put my hands around an old cop's neck and give him a first hand demonstration of what breaking bones sound like. I close my eyes and the red and blue flashes still get in under and through my eyelids.

This really sucks.

I close my eyes and I try to put a face on the punk that had been holding the pipe. He's all shadows and blackness. He's death and evil. And I'm being taken downtown for questioning. Merry fucking Christmas.

I want a beer.


	4. Confusion

Chapter 4: CONFUSION

I'm sitting in a room with a table and four chairs and a half gone cup of cold coffee (two sugars, three creams), one good light bulb, and two blue suits who wanna play good cop worse cop with me. They don't know what worse is.

"C'mon Carnalli, talk!"

I tell them I've told them everything there is to be told.

"Why'dja do it Carnalli?

Why'dja fuck yer mama, blue boy.

I'm not in a good mood. I don't particularly like coffee. I don't particularly like cops. I don't particularly like being awake at three in the morning, especially when I need to be somewhere other than a police station.

"When do I get my phone call? Oh wait! I'm not under arrest! So why am I playing with you two goons?" I stand up.

"Sit your ass down, pal."

I stay standing. I dare the guy with the gun to try and put me in the seat. Come on, spunk monkey! You got the jewels to back it up? Try me! Come on!

Blue boy one pulls a gun. Blue boy two pulls one too.

"I said sit."

"Big tough man with a gun. Tough guy talkin' big with a loaded weapon."

"I SAID SIT!"

You don't think he's mad, do you? I sit. I stand back up, messing with them. They've earned it, slug monkeys.

"Are you deaf or stupid? I said sit!"

"I'm not deaf and I'm not stupid. What I am is pissed off that I'm here at the buttcrack of dawn, talking with two intellectually bereft spunk monkeys with chips on their shoulders, being accused of a crime that I witnessed but didn't commit. I'm being held against my will, I haven't been given a phone call, and I'm fuckin' leaving!"

Blue boy one puts his gun in my face. "I said sit," he whispers through clenched teeth. "I'm not messing around here."

"You're not? Good! Neither am I."

Before he can think about doing anything, I grab his gun hand and slam it into his own face - wham. Blue boy two pulls back the hammer on his piece. I turn and stare at him. I bend over a little so that the barrel is right between my eyes from a distance of less than a foot.

"Go on, blue boy, pull the trigger. Kill an innocent unarmed man."

Blue boy one is on the floor screaming about his nose being broke.

"You assaulted a police officer!"

"I disarmed a punk who's too tired to be holding a gun right now."

"You bloke m' fuggin doze you tonofabidge!"

"Shaddap." I give him a little nudge with my toe in his ribs. He screams. Whatta wuss.

"I'm warning you, sit down Mr. Carnalli!" Blue boy two actually thinks he's serious.

"Look, did you bother to fingerprint the pipe that was in the alley? The one the guy dropped that actually committed the crime?"

Blue boy two is silent, letting that one roll around in his empty noggin for a bit. Blue boy one is trying to sit up. He's definitely got a broke nose and a pretty good shiner to boot. Do I feel sorry for him? Look me in the face, slug monkey.

"Did you?" I ask again. "You didn't, did you? Didn't think so. Stupid ass..." I turn away from blue boy two and head to the door.

The door opens and in walks some fat guy holding a cup of coffee and a manila folder. He's wearing a shoulder strap that holds a really nice looking .357. He reminds me a little of Ned Beatty, that guy from Deliverance. Squeal like a pig boy. Haha I make joke.

"And where do you think you're going?" pig boy asks.

"I'm leaving. I've answered your questions. You have no reason to hold me. I'm leaving."

"You'll sit down or you'll be charged with assaulting an officer and obstruction of justice."

"Obstruct this." The bird flies high and I walk out. Pig boy knows that he's all bluff and bluster, that he couldn't make it stick with a glue tube and a bag of Mankind's thumbtacks. He knows there's videotape of two cops pulling fire on an unarmed man who hasn't even been charged with a crime. I may take bumps for a living, but my brains aren't scrambled yet. They know they can't scare me if I don't let them, cause they don't have the power to scare me.

"Mr. Carnalli, can I call you a cab?"

"You can call me whatever the hell you want to. I'm still leaving."

"Ok, but could you answer me one question before you go?"

I turn around. I'm trying to be patient but my Tired has bodyslammed my Patience almost into submission. Once more, and Angry comes out with his buddy Uncontrollable Violence. "What?" I hiss, venom dripping.

"Do you have anyone in your life - anyone at all - that hates you bad enough to frame you for murder?"

I'm silent. I look at pig boy. He's not squealing. He's looking in the manila folder. He's drinking his coffee. He's looking back at me. Wonder what he sees?

"Well?"

"I honestly don't know."

"So you're saying that there COULD be somebody."

"Possibly. I'm too tired to really think clearly about it all."

"Care to talk?"

"Not especially."

"Sure?"

I stand there. I stand there and stare at pig boy. Look me in the face, slug monkey, do I look like I want to talk?

"OK. I'm gonna give you my card. Would you please give me a call when you get into San Francisco, after you've had a shower and some sleep preferably."

I take the white card with blue writing. Detective Leonard Sanders. I flick the card with a finger and stuff it in my front pocket.

"There's a squad car waiting up front for you to take you to the airport."

I'm uneasy about this. What's up with this guy?

"We made sure to grab your personal items from the hotel you were staying at. You should just make your flight."

I look at my watch. 4:57. Holy shit.

"I'll call you." I walk out.


	5. Recruitment

Chapter 5: RECRUITMENT

I'm on an airplane heading north toward San Francisco. I'm sitting in a chair that can barely surround my big ass. I'm sitting next to the window. Two seats over is Paul. Paul's asleep because he hates flying and sleeping is the only way he can travel this way. Wish I could sleep. Paul you chud muncher. Sleep for me guy.

I'm sitting by the window staring out at the clouds and the sun and the sky. I'm sitting wishing my eyes would close and that I would go to sleep. I'm sitting here wondering who it is that would want to frame me for murder. Murder of someone I don't even know. Murder after the biggest moment of my life.

A stew named Malinda appears and offers me a cocktail. Not now sweetcheeks, I'm trying to figure out who framed me for murder.

"No thank you."

Malinda disappears.

I stare out the window and remember. I remember what I was before I started wrestling. I remember being a punk kid on the streets of Portland stealing cars and lighting fires and basically raising hell. I grin briefly. I remember the hood, the fellas, the dudes I hung with. I was one messed up mofo. Still am. Never wanted to hurt anyone really. But people get hurt when you live life on the edge. Lots of people.

I remember this one punk who got in my face over something stupid. I remember having a chain wrapped around my hand. I remember slamming my hand with a chain wrapped around it into the punk's mouth and feeling and hearing his teeth break off. I remember him screaming and spitting blood and teeth and him wetting himself and passing out. Some guys can take pain. Some guys can't. This guy couldn't.

I remember running like hell and hearing sirens and screams and yells and feet running and ducking into an alley and hiding in a garbage bin. I remember being fifteen years old and hiding in a dumpster and listening to people run past the dumpster and feeling my heart beat in my throat and smelling dead fish and old diapers and breathing in old TV dinners and cat food and breathing out vomit barfing all over myself in the dark in the enclosed stinking dark cold and alone and afraid and bloody and I never wanted to feel that way again. I never wanted to feel afraid again. I never wanted to feel alone again.

I remember crawling out of the dumpster about an hour later and wandering around the city. The lights the sounds the people the noise the smells the shit. I remember wondering to myself if this was all I was ever going to be good for. If all I was going to be able to do would be wander around aimless and hurt people who get in my face. Fifteen years old I'm thinking this stuff.

I must have ambled around for a good hour and a half just going nowhere and doing nothing. I remember this sick looking hooker kinda winking at me, giving me the business. I don't fuckin' think so. She spit on me. I kept walking. I might have been a punk, but I didn't hit women. Not unless they earned it. Spitting on me doesn't earn it. Not in my book.

I remember wandering past this gym and seeing guys working out. I stick my head inside to get a better look. There's guys jumping rope and working on heavy bag and working speed bag and lifting weights and doing sit-ups and push-ups and chin-ups and stretches and all sorts of stuff. And there's a boxing ring. Only the guys in the ring aren't boxing, they're wrestling. Or practicing wrestling. They'd lock up, then one guy would throw the other guy to the ropes, and then that guy would run to the other set of ropes, and they,d crisscross for about six or seven cycles, then one guy would stop and hip toss the other guy and they'd do it again. And again. And again.

I couldn't believe they would do this over and over like this for what seemed like forever. Suddenly, this tall guy with long black hair down to his ass grabs my shoulder from behind and spins me around. "Hey," he says, "you're not supposed to be here."

"I'm just watching," I say. I'm not scared of him and he knows it and doesn't know what to do. This guy is huge - six six at least and probably in the neighborhood of 275. He's not wearing a shirt and he has tattoos all over his arms. Hes got a scraggly black beard. The beard has white stuff in it that looks like chicken and rice.

"Watching huh?" He lets go of my shoulder. He says "Watch this."

He gets in the ring. Talks a little to the two guys. I can't hear what he's saying. Next thing I know the two guys are fighting with the big guy, but the big guy is taking them on just fine. He punches one guy and he goes flying across the ring. He blocks a punch from the other guy and grabs him by the throat, lifts him up over his head and chokeslams him straight to hell.

"Cool," I say.

The big guy gets out of the ring and comes over to me. "Like that?"

"Not bad," I say nodding approval. "You can kick ass."

"You don't impress much, do you?"

"You bust em open doing stuff like that, you might impress me."

"Little dude, you are into some serious carnage. What's your name?"

"Max."

"Max Carnage. Geeze. How could you go wrong in the ring with a name like that?"

"Dunno."

"Wanna learn how to kick some serious ass?"

"What? You gonna teach me?"

"If you want."

"How much it gonna cost me, cause I don't have anything to give you. And I don't do weird favors." I started to back away, letting him know with body language that weird favors were definitely out of the question.

"Tell you what. I work with you for six weeks for free. After that, we talk payment, okay?"

"Why six weeks?"

"In six weeks I'll know if you're ready to move on and be a real performer or if you're just a punk kid with puke on your shirt and nothing better to do than crash out at a gym and watch guys beat their brains out."

"I'm not a punk."

"You could be."

"I'm not a punk!" I was starting to get heated.

"Prove it. Be here tomorrow night. Six sharp. Be here and prove you're not a punk."

I remember that night like it was yesterday. Hell, it could have been yesterday. I'm still a punk. But I'm the UNDISPUTED WORLD CHAMPION.

I have to grin again. Its just too funny to pass up.


	6. A Mark Learns a Lesson

Chapter 6: A MARK LEARNS A LESSON

I showed up like the guy told me. Six sharp. Mama didn't notice I was gone. She was passed out in front of the TV with her buddy Jack Daniels watching wheel of misfortune. Daddy didn't notice I was gone. Dead people don't have a tendency to pay much attention to the living.

The dude's name was Leon. Pussy name and he agreed but didn't hold it against me for saying so. He went by the name Road Angel. Again, pussy name. But he did know that chokeslam move, which kicked ass.

I was fifteen and was already six feet myself. I asked him to teach me that chokeslam so I could kick ass. He tells me to keep my dick in my pants and learn the basics. You have to learn to bump. You have to learn to lock up. You have to learn to sell. You have to learn to dance. You have to learn to not get hurt. You have to learn to not hurt someone else.

I was confused. Whatta ya mean not hurt someone else? He'd wiped out two guys last night and they looked dead as shit. He chuckled, whistled and called two names. The two guys that had been in the ring last night came trotting over from doing push ups.

"Do they look dead to you, Mark?"

Alive and kicking. Damn. What gives?

"What you need to realize, Mark, is that wrestling is very, very real and its very, very fake."

Leon has gone Kung Fu on me. Walk on rice paper leave no trace motherfucker. And what the fuck is this Mark shit?

"What that means is we work very, very hard to make it LOOK incredibly real. To the point of actually getting hurt sometimes. But when we're doing our job right, we can do this." Leon threw a punch at the guy on his left and the guy staggered back, then walked back. "And nobody is hurt. We do it wrong and people REALLY get hurt. Sometimes they get dead."

"So what gives?"

"What gives is called selling. That's something you'll learn later. For now I want you to give me ten push ups."

I eye this guy with suspicion. Push ups? Oh brother.

"First tell me why the fuck you keep calling me Mark. My name is Max."

"I called you Mark cause that's what a fan is that doesn't know that what were doing isn't real. Its real fake. Or fake real. Whatever. Now give me ten."

I drop and give him ten.

"Now give me another ten."

I give him another ten.

"Now give me another ten."

I give him ten.

"Another ten."

Another ten.

"Another."

How bout you blow me? I give him five good ones, three mediocre ones, one bad one, and one that sucked dick.

"Ok, that gives me a timeframe. Get up and run to that wall and back. Go!"

I get up. I run. I return.

"Do it again. Faster this time. Go!"

I run. I return. I gasp for air.

"Do it again. Pretend I'm running after you. I'm gonna rip your balls off and feed 'em to my dog. Go!"

I run. I stay on the far side of the room. Leon is starting to freak me out. More than a little bit. Leon is orbiting Neptune as far as I'm concerned.

"Get back over here!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"Max, come on. Come back here."

"And the horse you rode in on!"

Leon drops his head, put his hand over his face, shakes his head. I cant tell if hes laughing or crying.

"Max, come here please." He beckons to me with a thick-gloved hand.

I slowly make my way back over to Leon, making sure I stay out of arm reach of this tattooed ogre that stands before me.

Leon hunkers down a little and looks me in the face. At first he doesn't say anything, he just looks at me. I stare back at him, defiant, self sufficient, a punk kid in sweat socks and holey jeans.

"Max, listen. Im sorry. I don't mean to ride you so rough. I'm used to breaking guys a lot older than you, teaching them that the ring isn't their thing. You. You're different. You ever seen wrestling on TV?"

I tell him I sometimes watch the late Saturday night matches sometimes when Mama's passed out already.

"Good enough. Surprised you haven't seen me on there. You basically think it's real, don't you?"

"No... Yeah... I dunno."

"It's not real like boxing and football and baseball and soccer and golf are real. Pro wrestling is more like a soap opera than a sporting event. A comic book. There's good guys and bad guys. Faces and heels. Sometimes the good guys win, sometimes the bad guys win. But it's never the guys that are actually wrestling that decide that. That's done by a booker. He decides who wrestles who and who wins and who loses. If you lose, it's called doing a job, or jobbing. We don't worry about win or lose. We worry about pop. Pop is crowd reaction. The bigger the pop, the more you get over. Getting over is what we work on. And you get over by doing incredible things in the ring that make people stand up and scream their heads off or by being the heel and pulling heat by doing bad ass things behind the refs back, but letting the crowd see you do it. Being nasty. But the only way you're going to experience that pop is if you get the basics down. Then the middle ground. Then the hard stuff.

I was in awe. I wanted that. I wanted the noise and the thunder and the sweat and the blood. I wanted it so bad I could taste it.

"You ready to work for it? You ready to bleed for it? You ready to get hurt going after it? That pop? That flash? The crowd screaming? Girls begging to bang you in the back alley after the show? Guys spitting on you, telling you you ain't so tough? You ready for that? Then run to that wall and back again. Go!"

I ran. I returned. I did it again. And again. And again.


	7. Arrival

Chapter 7:ARRIVAL

The plane touched down at San Fran International. I had slept somehow remembering my early EARLY days. My legs ached with the remembrance.

Paul leans over and slaps me upside the head. "Wake up ugly, were down."

Try that again sphincter breath. You'll pull back a stub.

We deplane. People milling around the boarding area. A girl to my left squeals and jumps into the arms of some long haired hippy freak who grabs her ass as she shoves her tongue down his throat. Young love in action. Spare me.

I have my carry-on bag over my shoulder, my shades on my eyes, and my attitude well in place. That's the one thing about this job that gets to me sometime. I have to always be ON when I'm in public. I can't even go to a Burger King without being ON. I'm always Carnage, UNDISPUTED WORLD CHAMPION now, but still Carnage. With any luck, I'll get a day or two when were in Portland later this week that I can hang at the old neighborhood and be Carnalli for awhile. I miss that guy. Course that guy is under suspicion for murder.

That thought brings it all back and I'm pissed off. Being Carnage isn't hard when I'm pissed off. I head for the luggage carrier, daring anyone to get in my way. People suddenly develop a sixth sense and steer clear of the tall guy with long black hair and bad attitude. The guy with the giant firebreathing dragon crawling down his left arm in blue ink, a villager clutched in claws, bleeding and broken. The guy with the grim reaper decapitating some poor fool with a scythe on his right arm, fire flying from under the hood as the blade swings. The guy with the scruffy black beard, and a mustache that hurls insults at razors. The guy that oozes pain to the fool that crosses him. Six feet four of mobile human destruction machine and he's gunning for disruption. Please, somebody, say something snide. Do something crass. Give me a reason to plant this size 17 wide sideways in your piehole. Give me a reason to perform impromptu exploratory surgery on your cranium. Give me a reason to find out if assholes can fly and how far.

I make it to the baggage carrier without incident. Damn.

Paul and Kurt are standing there, watching for their bags. Kurt's sporting quite the shiner this morning. Must have given him more business than I intended to.

"Kurt, how you doing?"

"I'm doing ok, Max. A bit sore. You know, you could have pulled a little last night though. You were working pretty stiff."

I apologize. I never intend to injure my co-workers. But sometimes the heat of the moment gets kicked up twenty degrees and someone's ass gets hurt. Luckily this sort of injury is minor, and makes for great story line. Knowing Kurt, when he does his promos tonight, he'll play up my badassness, but vow revenge. Now if it had been Ricky, Mr. Poofda-schtick, he'd play up his bitch boy persona, vowing to scratch my eyes out.

Paul spots his bag. Its a huge black monstrosity that you could smuggle a small child in if you so chose to. Paul's a big guy, with some funky in ring equipment. Big shoulder pads and a cape and other weird things. I haven't seen such bizarre stuff since Big Van Vader was wearing the smoking helmet getup that he brought over from Japan. Thing would spit smoke on demand. All remote control of course. I remember him putting that thing in the middle of the ring and pointing to it. Whoosh. Bizarre.

I spot my suitcase, a smallish overnight job. I don't carry much with me. Toothbrush, change or two of underwear, couple pairs of pants, shirt or three. I carry my gear with me in my carry on. That never leaves me when I travel. Especially now that I have that extra piece of equipment to keep track of. It's a hoot to be here, in a major international airport, with a giant piece of metal in my carryon bag and I'm now about to try and explain its existence without getting arrested or mobbed. Talk about a Kodak moment.

The boys and I head for the pickup area. We be a gang, shonuff. Badasses one and all. Some of us have scars on our bodies, some have scars on our psyches, some have scars on our souls. Some wear fine threads, some wear ratty jeans. Some are clean shaven pretty boys, some like me like the scuzz bucket look. Some are technical athletes with amateur backgrounds and accolades as long as an ape's arm. Some are street brawlers who don't know a headlock from a headache half the time. Hulk smash is their theme. Some are highly educated and read things by Dickens and Dumas and Asimov and Hawkings and Plato. Some have a hard time understanding Hagar the Horrible in the funnypapers. Despite the differences in background and personality, each one of these men is a wizard in the ring, showing crowds night after night after night acts of physical endurance and athleticism incomprehensible to the normal mind. Only a wrestling fan can watch what we do and fully appreciate the beauty of it all. Only a wrestling fan can watch two grown men in spandex and leather pretend to beat the holy hell out of each other and scream for more. It's my belief that if you put a real fight in front of a wrestling fan, they're going to react one of two ways. They're either going to be utterly disgusted, because its real and real is a hell of a lot more scarey than fake, even the most realistic fake. Or they're going to be bored. Real fights aren't terribly exciting because they're not designed to be. They're designed to be a catharsis for two assholes to try and beat the shit out of each other until they're too exhausted or injured to do it any more. They don't care about who's watching them usually. They're concerned about rage and frustration and anger and pain and blood and energy. If people happen to be standing around, so be it. Just don't get in the way. Now two guys fighting over a girl is a different case. That's not a fight, that's a show. Peacocks showing off to the hen. Who's the better provider, the bigger dick. And ten times out of nine, the guy that wins gets kicked in the sack and the loser gets the girl in the sack. Bizarre world.

I flag a taxi. He passes me up for Nikki whos wearing that short leather mini with the studs and fringe that always gets guys standing at full attention. I don't blame the guy, he's being played as bad as any ringside mark. Nikki's a looker and she knows it and she uses it in the worst ways sometimes. It's going to get her in trouble someday. I just feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch that crosses her. She's wicked nasty with a mean streak to boot. Little minx will bite it off if you let her. Ask Stubby.


	8. Burgers and Booking

Chapter 8: BURGERS AND BOOKING

My body clock says it's nearly noon, but all the clocks I see say its nearly 3:00 in the afternoon. I'm starving for a Carnage Burger. Unfortch, we're headed for the arena for tonight's festivities and the likelihood of me getting more than a chili dog from the concession stand and possibly a Coke is pretty damn nil. My stomach growls a loud obnoxious burble. Release the hounds.

I see these other guys eating their pasta and their vegetables and their fruits and grains and I wonder how in the world they get through a match without shitting themselves. One good size bump and its stink city. Poison gas at the very least. I mean that's natures Roto-router right there man. I just don't get it.

Me, I need MEAT. I'm fond of burgers, but steak works real well. I try to lay off the greasy food for the most part. That's as bad for you as the Compost Smoothies some of these guys chow down on. Although once in a while a big ole Carnage Burger and fries really hits the spot.

For the uninitiated, a Carnage Burger is three quarter-pound patties, six slices of cheese of various varieties ranging from good old all American to cheddar to provolone to whatever happens to be available when I open the fridge. Lettuce, a whole onion, a least one whole tomato, several whole pickles sliced all nice, slather it in mayo, at least six strips of bacon, horseradish sauce or hot and spicy mustard like that stuff they serve at good Chinese restaurants, four avocado slices, a fistful of mushrooms, two fried eggs, three thick slices of ham, crisp fried onion rings for texture, and all of it smothered in barbeque sauce. Now that is GOOD eatin'. A sixty-four ounce beverage to wash it down, and you've got yourself a nice snack.

Who am I kidding? The last guy that even attempted to eat one of those things nearly had to get rushed to the hospital to get his stomach pumped. Of course the idiot forgot to saute up the onions first and hadn't cooked the eggs well enough. Never put those two foods together unless they are both well cooked. Unless you want to spend significant time praying to the great god Ralph at the porcelain alter of swirling water. It really is an art, and everybody thinks I'm kidding about that. Chud munchers.

I wander over to the concession stand. The only other clientele are fellow matmen and women, so it should be a quick in and out. I get a burger, fries and a coke, and head to the dressing room.

Dillon is already there with the night's log. Dillon's the head booker.

Max, you've got a fifteen minute promo with Vince tonight at about the 25, after the Acolytes and Hardys do their dance. He's gonna play up how you cheated and all that, and -"

"Dillon, I didn't cheat."

"Wha...?" Dillon checks his ever-present clipboard. "Whoops! No, you didn't. You got it clean. Sorry about that. Jet lag."

"Jet lag? Dillon, we just flew up from LA. If anyone has a reason to be blitzed right now, it's me. I didn't sleep last night, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Ok, well, I dunno this promo thing... Vince is gonna play it up that he's not to thrilled to have you holding the belt, blah blah blah. Probably claim you cheated. You know the drill."

"Yeah. Just like he does with everybody else."

"Yeah, you know the scene. Anyway, Kurt will come out, demand a match, but Vince won't allow that either, so you're in the M.E. with Kurt against Mark and Brandon."

"Tag with Kurt against Scab and Cap'n Crunch? Oh, that's gonna be a loo-loo."

"Figure it'll give you a chance to rest up. We've got a shit load of run-in attacks on you over the next three weeks. Tonight included."

"Oh. Who's company do I get to expect tonight?"

"Taker."

"Taker?"

"Taker."

"Taker. As in Night of the Living Undead, American Bad Ass, Taker?"

"Yeah. As in The Phenom, Big Evil Red Devil UNDERFUCKINGTAKER. Chair shot to the back. Dogyard. Two more while you're down. Kurt chases after him to no avail - fade to black. You promo tomorrow night vowing revenge, of course."

"Of course."

"M.E. with Taker tomorrow night. You win by DQ. Headshot with a chair. Little more serious beatdown. But we'll discuss that tomorrow. Right now, you need to get with Kurt and Mark and Brandon and get things figured. You know M & B are gonna want to try and do that table thing with you. Green light?"

"Not tonight. Let them do it on a run in a week from now. My neck is pretty sore."

"Done deal, Champ." Champ. I like the sound of that.

"Ok Dillon. I'll let you get back to it."

"Cool. Bug me later tonight after the promo. Well talk. Plan. Strategize."

"You mean plot and scheme."

"Of course! What did you expect? Get outta here ya big galloot!"

I head to the john after dropping off my stuff at my locker. Do my business, wash, come back.

Somebody's dicked with my burger. I can tell because the wrapper isn't straight. An amateur has rewrapped my burger. His ass is mine. Can you sense the glee?

I start asking around: "Who messed with my burger?"

"I dunno." "Wasn't me." "What burger?" "Musta been Paul."

I hunt down Paul. Paul's wearing nothing but a jockstrap and his boots. So much for my appetite. Nothing will throw you on a diet faster than a 300+ pound man nearly naked. I shudder.

"Paul, did you dick with my burger?"

"Max, Max, Max. Why do you assume that I would misappropriate and convey malice upon your foodstuffs?"

"'Cause you're the type of asshole that fucks with people's food, numnuts. What didja do to my burger?"

"Oh, come now, Maximillian. I would NEVER dream to harm your food."

"Yeah, and the popes jewish. Get off it Paul or you're wearing your teeth for jewelry."

"God, you never could take a joke. Sheesh. Hot mustard."

"Thats it? Thats all?"

"Hot mustard. Thats it, thats all. On my mothers grave."

"If you had a mother. I think you were hatched in some laboratory underneath Colorado somewhere."

I go and take a bite of the burger. Hot mustard. REALLY hot mustard. I'll thank Paul later.


	9. Mic Time

Chapter 9: MIC TIME

Im backstage, watching the monitors, listening to my favorite Sooner Boomer chat up the guys in the ring.

And Jeff Hardy nearly took Farooqs head off with the Poetry-In-Motion!

I get a kick out of watching those kids do their thing. Theyve got energy and spunk and they sell the hell out of everything. Chicks dig em. Guys dig em. And Litas a hottie.

Matt Hardy going for the Twist of Fate OOH! Farooq goes down! And Jeff Hardy goes to the top rope! High risk maneuver here SWANTON BOMB! He nailed it! Jeff Hardy nails it and Matt goes for the pin one-two-THREE!!

The crowd goes insane. They do so love Team Extreme.

Dillon runs up to me. Max! Good! Caught you before the promo. Ah, listen. Vince is going to play up the murder charge!

Say what?!

I wish I were kidding, Max, but Im not. And hes on his way out right now

I look at the monitor. Sure enough, the slug monkey is climbing into the ring, mic in hand. Shit.

Just didnt want it to broadside you too badly.

Right, Dillon. Wait until the last minute, wait until Vinnie is climbing into the ring and THEN tell me hes gonna lay into me like a mad dog on road kill. Thanks Dillon.

Dillon doesnt say anything. He just kind of hangs his head, stares at his shuffling feet, lets his clipboard dangle. I dont look at him. I look at the monitor and watch Vinnie Mac do his thing. The man is dangerous on the mic.

Im sure all you people here in San Francisco Huge, cheap, crowd pop. Im sure all you people are THRILLED to death that Max Carnage is your new Undisputed Champion. The pop is gigantic, humongous, overpowering. From the rafters to the foundation, the building reverberates with the echo of my name being screamed out by thousands of fans:

MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX!

Im sure youre thrilled to death that Max Carnage beat Kurt Angle for the Undisputed belt.

MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX!

Im sure youre thrilled to death that Max Carnage is going to be a thorn in my side in the future.

MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX!

Well, Im sorry. I hate to disappoint you. But Max Carnage will not be a thorn in my side.

The crowd noise got louder, if that was possible. Screams of fans and roars and yells. The crowd loves Max Carnage, and theyre expecting to see it in the ring and soon.

I hate to disappoint but somebody HAS BEEN thrilled to DEATH by Max Carnage!

And now the crowd goes a little quiet, because this is wholly unexpected. What the hell is Vinnie Mac talking about? As the Dudleys used to say, Wuzzup?

Thats right, you heard me correctly. Somebody got killed last night, after Backlash. And who was at the scene of the crime, looking guilty, acting guilty? Max Carnage!

The crowd goes nuts, with boos and yells and roars and screams. They want blood, all right. And it may be mine.

You know what I think? I think Max Carnage was out on the town and somebody thought they were tougher than Max Carnage. I think that somebody told Max Carnage they were tougher than Max Carnage. And I think Max Carnage kicked that person in the gut, stuck that persons head between his thighs, lifted him high over head, and brought him down to take a very fatal Dirt Nap.

The noise police would have a heyday with the volume jump from the crowd. They were livid. They wanted blood: Vinces, mine, didnt matter.

Crowd psychology is a funny thing. We as performers purposefully say and do things to get the crowd, the audience, to react in certain ways to us. And we are REALLY good at what we do. Some time ago, Steve Austin managed to Pavlov his entire viewing audience into saying WHAT? after every sentence Kurt Angle said during his promos. It was stupid and annoying, but effective. Vince is the master of crowd manipulation. There is no low that he wont strive to hit, provided it wont get thoroughly censored or cost him a butt load in fines. No kiddy porn, no sex with animals, no blatant evisceration for the live viewing audience, but pretty much everything else is fair game. Now an off-screen dismemberment. No, not really.

Dillon, get me a mic, I say, not turning around, just staring at the monitor. I dont hear movement. My head snaps around to where Dillon was last standing. Hes still standing there looking like hes about to piss himself. I said get me a mic, dammit! I yell at him. He disappears, almost in a puff of smoke. Dont piss me off right now, Dillon. Im in no mood.

Vince is still going off. I knew that Max Carnage was going to be trouble the moment he stepped foot in this organization. But did you fans listen to me? Did you fans listen to the voice of reason? The voice of experience? The voice of proven leadership? No!

The crowd thunders with whoops and screams and yells, raising the roof. Dillon has scurried back with a microphone. He hands it to me. I take it from him and nonchalantly put it in my back pocket, never taking my eyes off the monitor. A promo is forming in my head, one that should keep me in the good graces of the crowd for a bit yet. Dillon, go get Taker. That run-in happens in two minutes. Ninety seconds tops.

What? Dillon doesnt get it.

Dillon, that was Austins line. Now go get Taker before I kick your ass! Dillon scurries off again. I focus back on the monitor once again, listening to the master dis me something fierce. I strap the championship belt around my waist as I watch, gearing up for what is to come.

Max Carnage is nothing but street trash! Hes a hulking brute! He doesnt deserve to be Undisputed Champion! He doesnt deserve to have that belt! He doesnt deserve to be in the same ring, let alone the same ARENA, as a TRUE champion, like Kurt Angle!

Kurts music cues up. I hadnt even noticed him standing there, waiting for his entrance. He gives me a little raise of his eyebrows and a sideways head nod that says Hey, youre guess is as good as mine.

I call after him Three-on-one beatdown in fourty-five. He gives a quick nod, indicating he understands.

He heads down the ramp and the audience is screaming and shouting You Suck! when the horn riff comes up. Kurt saunters down to the ring, the patented Olympic Schmuck Smile plastered on his mug. He climbs into the ring and leans in to Vince and whispers something to him. Vince of course plays it up as just conformation of condescension, but I know better. I know Kurt has just let Vince know that Im gearing up to come out, and that Taker will do a run in on me. Which means the three on one beatdown is on. Vince hands Kurt the mic.

Mr. MacMahon, I couldnt agree with you more! Your Olympic hero, Kurt Angle, IS a MUCH better champion than that white trash scum, Max Carnage! Do you see what he did to me? Kurt shows off his shiner to the audience who gives him the mock boo-hoo. That animal nearly broke my nose with that that that MOVE of his! That thing is WAY too dangerous! That move is is well it should be made ILLEGAL! Its not a WRESTLING move! It doesnt take any skill to fling a guy into the air and land him on his face! Not like the Olympic Slam! Not like the Ankle lock! Those moves require practice and skill! And Ive got a LOT of skill! Ive got enough skill to have an Olympic gold medal! I dont see any Olympic medals around Max Carnages neck! The crowd is chanting crybaby at Kurt, who is playing it for all hes worth. I want my title back! I want it back, and I want it back NOW! The crowds chant has gone into the realm of deafening. Its quite a pop, gonna be hard to beat. I love a challenge.

Vince takes the mic back from Kurt. I have to agree with you, Kurt! That move SHOULD be illegal! And Im gonna make that move illegal! From this time forward, the Dirt Nap will be an illegal move! Any usage of the Dirt Nap will result in a disqualification!

The crowd is slathering, their howls of protest a din of unmatched proportion. And furthermore! Vince pauses, dramatically letting the crowd calm down yeah right, And furthermore, since Max Carnage used an illegal move to win I mean STEAL your title from you, Kurt Angle, I hereby STRIP Max Carnage of the World Wrestling Entertainment Undisputed Title and

My music cues up, the guys in the back proving why theyre the best in the business. My entrance music is a heavy industrial metal sound that is not unlike sending a live pig through a wood chipper. I come out on stage and the fans go ballistic. The roar is unbe-fucking-lievable. People are on their feet chanting my name again. The building is shaking, for Gods sake! Vince and Kurt are in the ring, looking like theyre worried about me coming down there, but theyre really doing a quick layout on strategy for whats about to happen. I pull the mic from my back pocket.

Um, excuse me Vince? The crowd gives off a huge Whoa! They know Vince doesnt like to be called Vince, hes Mr. MacMahon to the commoners. Vince, did I just hear you right? Did I hear you call me STREET TRASH? The pop is gigantic. Vince has that constipated diarrhea look on his face, the one where hes not sure whether hes going to let loose in his jockeys or not, but it wont be good either way.

Yeah, that was it! Street trash! A hulking brute who DOESNT DESERVE to be the UNDISPUTED CHAMPION of the dubya dubya eee! Thats what you said Vince. I slowly start walking toward the ring, talking as I go.

You wanna outlaw the Nap, thats what you said. Gonna outlaw the Nap, make it illegal. I roll under the bottom rope into the ring. Vince and Kurt back up to the far side of the ring, moving away from me. Youre gonna strip me of the title I won fair and square in THIS VERY RING. The crowd is foaming with excitement. The air is electric. We have the crowd in our palms. The crowd is our plaything and we can do with it as we please. I undo the belt from around my waist, one-handed. Youre gonna take this belt away from me because, lets face it, you dont like me. Okay, that was pretty damn lame, but hey, Im doing this off the top of my head here.

The crowd doesnt seem to mind. They pop for the lameness and Vince is yelling affirmative about him not liking me and Kurt is yelling his agreement and the crowd is yelling at everything.

Well, I got nine words for you and the Olympic Cry-Baby there. And Im gonna say them slowly so you dont misunderstand a single syllable, either one of you, because I want this as clear as mud for you two pea-brained chud munchers: You. Can. Have. My. Belt. I hold the belt out to them. Over. My. Dead. Body. With that I charge Kurt, high forearm to the chest, belt in hand, sending him flying over the top rope to land with a heavy, meaty thud on the padded floor area surrounding the ring. Vince makes as if to run, but I grab him by the back of the neck and yank him back into my world. I give him a kick to the gut, doubling him over. I toss the belt down behind him as I grab him under the armpits and slam his head between my knees, grab him around his waist and hoist and spin his body. Voila! Hes sitting on my shoulders, looking down at me wide eyed and open mouthed, knowing whats going to happen. I whisper up to him Takers in in 3, watch out for the belt, and jump up and fall back, dropping him face first onto the waiting belt plate. I spring up to my feet and start talking trash at the prone body, waiting for the Undertaker to come in.

The next thing I remember, I feel a hard sting at the back of my head and hear the crunch of metal on something solid and meaty as Taker gives me a great whap to the back, smacking me right at shoulder blade level but looking like hes just cracked me upside the head with a steel chair. I go down, selling the hell out of the shot, getting ready for another one. I dont have to wait long. Wham! Right in the back, a little stiff cause he got more of the chair on me than on the mat, but Ill live. Wham! Another one to the back, this time more chair to mat than chair to back, which suits me just fine. I figure hell give me another chair or two, then work on me with his hands, maybe bust me open. I sell the dickens out of the attack. He gives me two more head shots which sound worse than they feel, and my ears are ringing. The crowd is beyond nuts. True to form, Taker flips me over and goes to work on the forehead, popping the eyebrow just right so my face is the ever famous Crimson Mask. I can feel shoes tapping at my shoulders and legs, so I know Kurt and Vince are in on the fun. I lay there, selling my unconsciousness, and the crowd is buying it hook, line, sinker and reel. It goes on for about 45 seconds, then the ref squad comes in and breaks it up, kicking everyone out of the ring. They slap me onto a strecher and wheel me out of the main arena area, and into the back area, moving to set up for another quick promo, to give the crowd more to react to.

Vince walks up to me as I lie on the strecher, wiping blood out of my eye. Nicely done, Max. Quick thinking! Good work! I like that kind of improvisation! Shows initiative!

Vince. I sit up and look at him. He has a small scratch over his eye, but I dont give a shit. Next time, warn me a little ahead before you go shooting off your mouth.

Vince looks stunned.

Ah, Max, this is my show. If I see an opportunity to take a story line into a different direction, I have the right to do that. His voice is very firm and not at all like the man who was just on stage, but that menace was back.

No offense, Mr. MacMahon. I understand your position. I respect that. I just would like to have a little warning before you go pulling that kind of promo on me again. Dont blindside me. Ill work with you, no problem. You want me to job the belt back to Kurt, fine. You want me to job it to Taker, no problem. Just dont blindside me.

Vince paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. Youre right, Max. Im sorry. I apologize for for blindsiding you. It wasnt fair to you and Im sorry. But you have to admit, he said with a grin, that pop was pretty big. I dont think even Dwayne has gotten a pop like that.

Oh sure he has, I say, laying back down. He just hasnt had the kind of heat we just put out for awhile. Give the man some heat, hell give you pop. Dont worry.

Yeah. Dwaynes a pro.

Say, am I still on tonight? I would assume that after what just happened, the card would change some.

Yeah, the card changed. Weve got twenty minutes to see how were going to do this

Make it me versus Taker and Kurt. Triple threat. Once Earl gets knocked out of the ring, you do a run in, take a nap. Taker chokeslams me, Kurt breaks it up. Kurt slams me, Taker breaks it up. Kurt ankle locks Taker. Taker taps, but no ref. Kurt pulls a hissy fit, Taker Rides him. I manage to give Taker a nap. Earl gets back in. One two three. Shows done, everybody hit the showers.

Vince is nodding as I break it down for him. I like it. Go with it. Dillon? Let Kurt and Taker know the game play. Max? Promo in five minutes. And Max?

I look up at him again.

Good work Champ.

I grin through the Crimson Mask. Champ. I do so like that word.


	10. Promo

Chapter 10: PROMO

I need to get this promo out of the way and it needs to be done right the first time. Im still bleeding over my eye, which is a good thing as far as putting the promo over, but annoying as hell. I hate having stuff drip in my face.

Ive got two guys on either side of me that are the MTs in this little skit. Theres a third guy behind me who is an actual med tech who will clean up the head wound while Im talking. Or try to anyway.

I look to Dillon whos directing this one and on his signal I start in.

MedTech one: Just lay back and take it easy Mr. Carnage

Me: Get your friggin hands off me! Wheres Angle?

MedTech two: Ah.

Me: Wheres Angle?!? Where is that Red-White-and Puke JACKASS?!

MedTech one: Ah

Me: And where is that no good, low life, yellow bellied piece of crap, Undertaker?!?

MedTechs: Ah

Me: Where are they?!

MedTech three: Mr. Carnage, I need you to lay still. You got busted up pretty good out there and I

Me: I got jumped from behind is what I got! Jumped from behind by a couple of cowards who cant wipe their own asses without help! I look right into the camera. Well maybe they NEED to team up! Maybe they NEED to watch each others asses! Because they didnt get the job done! They didnt put me down and make sure I was out! Im still here, Taker! Im still here, Angle! And Im still the champ, which Im sure pisses you both off to no end. You know something though, Angle? Taker? You know something? I already told you that you can have this belt. You can have it OVER MY DEAD BODY!! That appeal to you, punk? That whet your whistle to come gunnin for me? I got an idea. Maybe well find out just how far youre willing to go to find out if I can back up that statement. How far are Big Bitch Undertaker and the Olympic Butt Sniffer willing to go to steal the title from Max Carnage!

Howzabouts you two panty wastes bring your bad selves to that very ring tonight, right here in the Cow Palace! Bring your cowardly, blind-siding backsides to the ring, Angle, Taker. You climb into that ring and well have ourselves a little pas-de-tois for the brass ring, whattayasay? For you uneducated road trash out there, TAKER: pas-de-tois is a THREE WAY DANCE! Thats right, you chud munchers! A Triple Threat match! For this title MY title! World Wrestling Entertainment Undisputed Championship! On the line! All the marbles! But fair warning, chumps: you two bitch boys had damn well better make sure that I am dead and gone, because I sure as hell will make you WISH you were dead!

Cause theres gonna be MAX CARNAGE in the ring tonight, and only survivors walk away. Dramatic pause, and Dillon calls out CUT! That should give Jerry and Jim something good to work with for the viewing audience.

I slump back and let the MT clean up my head. Dillon comes over. That was great, Max! Just great!

Did it look good?

Max, the fans think you are utterly crazed to begin with. Coachman just called in, said there are fans who really think you ARE gonna kill Taker and Kurt! Gonna hunt em down like animals! Its great! The pop is huge, and they havent even shown the promo yet!

Well, well see. Should be a decent match too. Its got some pop. Taker and Kurt will bring heat, Im sure.

Shit, Max! Its a pay-per-view match is what it is! And youre practically giving it away to the television audience! For FREE! Youve really raised the bar, Max. Not bad for your first day as champ! Theres that wonderful word again. When did that word get associated with me again? Oh, yeah: last night, a million years ago.

Think Vince will get pissed about that?

Hell no! He always likes to keep his followup RAW shows as action-packed as the PPV itself. This is great! Beats the living hell out of the tag match we had planned!

Yeah, well I hope Mark and Brandon dont go Cuckoos Nest on me for dropping their match.

Last I heard, Mark and Brandon were camped out at the main locker monitor to watch the festivities. They like watching you work, Max. They know theyll get their shots at you eventually. Besides, we need to build an angle to get them on your case anyway. Need to get you a partner. Need to -

Yeah, yeah. One thing at a time, Dillon! Geez, you can be pushy! I grin, showing him Im funnin with him. It eventually gets through to him and he gives a little laugh.

Ok, ok. Ill back off from that one for now. You get cleaned up and psyched. Youve got about ninety minutes, give or take.

Cool. Hey, when you see Kurt or Taker, let them know I want to see them.

No prob, Champ. And you, Dillon switched his focus to the MT. Dont tie those stiches too tight. Were gonna want juice on this one.

Ok, Dillon, responded the tech, you want juice, you got it.

Juice is the slang term for blood in the industry. Which means this little dance I just thought up is going to get messy. My specialty. Its been awhile since Kurt has been busted open. He usually gets popped in the teeth or the nose and he just trickles. Its pretty sad, really. Steve Regal is the same way. Steve AUSTIN, on the other hand, is a great bleeder. When he gets opened up, its the friggin Red Sea, man. And with that bald head, it just looks awesome from a promotional point of view, of course. I dont really want to hurt anyone, but sometimes we have to make it look like we do.

Actually, there is someone I want to hurt. That dark guy in the alley from last night. But I cant think about that right now. Ive got to get ready. Gotta psyche up to deliver MAX CARNAGE. Let the juices flow.


End file.
